


Evanura: The True Story of the Fall of the Dales

by FenxShiral



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Drama, Epic, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Omniscient, Sexual Content, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FenxShiral/pseuds/FenxShiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A epic tale of war, love, betrayal, and great loss. Recounts the tale of Ser Brandis and Lindiranae from different perspectives, using the Exalted March against the Dales as a backdrop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foreward

Evanura: The True History of the Conquest of the Dales  
by JES Brandis  
20th Edition  
A New Translation by Ghyslaine Coté  
Edited by Varric Tethras  
Forward by Brother Ferdinand Genitivi  
Published on the 6th, Justinian, 9:26 Dragon  
by Maison d'édition de Dumas, Cumberland, Nevarra

 

Foreward

by Ferdinand Genitivi 

 

I remember when I first read _Evanura: La véritable histoire de la conquête des Dales._ It was listed in the fiction department of the University's library, and was the library's only copy (the others had been destroyed by the Templars during Divine Faustine the Second's purge of "Anti-chantry propaganda" between 8:62 and 8:71 Blessed). It was a first edition, and was in its original Orlesian, and I remember I was unable to put it down. I read the book for three days straight (I missed two classes, my professors were not pleased), and couldn't get it out of my mind for months afterward. When I was forced to return the book after keeping it two months too late, I immediately set out to the nearest bookshop to find a copy of the recent 19 th edition.

To my wonder (and happiness) none of the humor, severity, or poetry of the original work was lost in the translation (all editions after the 10th have been released exclusively in common). It is still my favorite book to this day (despite having many other 'favorites), and I make an effort to re-read it at least once a year. I must admit that it isn't the most well written of books I have read, nor it is the most riveting. Rather, it is the most resonant. It resonates with me in a way that only a book that has changed your life can.

When I was asked to write a foreword to this book (a surprise, let me assure you, as even today it is still considered a blasphemous "Anti-Chantry" book), I found myself unable to refuse. I know that I may receive some sideways glances from my peers when this is printed - I do not care.

The book is, of course, hotly debated in scholarly circles, and the University has a very strict policy: Discussing the work as a non-fiction book is grounds for expulsion. It is no secret that this is a policy rigidly demanded by Divine Beatrix The First during the Black Age, when the fervor against all anti-chantry materials was at an all-time high. The close political ties between the University and those in positions of power within the Chantry make sure that this policy will not be disappearing anytime soon.

The book contradicts a lot of Orlesian and Chantry rhetoric on the Exalted March Upon the Dales. Faustine decried its continued publication (despite it being listed under fiction) as it "Besmirched the reputation of the venerable Divine Renata The First." The chantry has long held that the Exalted March upon the Dales was entirely an Orlesian affair, and never gained full chantry support (despite Renata's declaration of an Exalted March). This book firmly asserts that is a lie, and a blatant one at that. The author (who claims to, of course, be none other than the famous Ser Brandis himself) contends that Renata The First not only announced the march, but also decreed that it was the Maker's will that the Elves be punished for refusing to "Put aside their pagan gods."

Renata, and her famous right hand Amity, have long been regarded as devout and pious heroes of our faith. This book contends the opposite: That Renata was a totalitarian despot, and Amity little more than a bigot who hid her prejudice behind her station, and her excellent grasp of the art of speech. It makes many assertions that are considered blasphemy of the highest regard, which has only served to increase the books popularity in the last few decades. After all, pulp fiction is a sort of culture in Orlais, even if it does besmirch much of what Orlesians are taught about their own history.

Despite the rules at The University, that this book, under no circumstances, was to be considered anything but a work of fiction, scholars have not stopped from debating its true nature. Scholars, even graduates of Val Royeux's prestigious University, are now debating whether the book truly is nonfiction, and merely published as fiction to avoid the chantry's ire. The rebuttal is usually the obvious one: Fiction or not, why would the Chantry of the Glory age (widely known to fiercely destroy heretical materials with gusto) allow such a book to exist, if it truly contained a truth that blemished its reputation?

The answer, of course, for those of us who believe there is at least a grain of truth in the writing, is that the chantry published it (in a way of course). There are few publishers of note from the Glory age. Publishing was not the booming business it is today, with a printing press in every city, with printing and publishing houses boasting employees numbering in the hundreds in some of the largest cities ( _Dumas_ currently employs over 700 people throughout Orlais and Nevarra).

Publishing before the Steel Age was done on a very small time basis. Few companies had the resources for larger printing presses, and so most books were actually copied either by hand, or enchanted by Tranquil or Dwarves to copy themselves. Even the famous Shaperate of Orzammar still use the old Dwarven rune-method of copying, rather than printing presses (Dwarves dislike the absolute mess that ink makes). In the middle of the glory age, when this was first published, the chantry would have easily not noticed a book published through their own presses, as most of them were 'loaned' out to smaller publishers (for a sizeable "donation" of course).

Of the publishers of note in that age, one comes to mind: Roderic Bouchard. Bouchard was a chantry scholar in the Glory Age, as well as a prolific author and one of the few publishers known by name throughout Orlais at the time. It is the opinion of us "truth seekers" that he is the Roderic that the letter from "JES" refers to. Brandis was, at the time of the Exalted March, a high ranking general in the Imperial army. He would have had many connections, and it is not out of the question that he would have a few chantry scholars who owed him a favor. Additionally, there is evidence that Brandis and Bouchard both attended the University during the same time. Whether they became friends or not is unknown, but the evidence is there to suggest that they at least knew each other. The University was a much smaller institution six hundred years ago, and it would not be uncommon for a graduating class to have less than 80 people in it (compared to over 800 nowadays). There are even some who contend that Bouchard himself wrote the book, using correspondence he received from Brandis.

It is possible that Roderic not only helped to cover Brandis's disappearance from his life as a soldier, but also published this work for him. Given his connections in the chantry (he was, by all accounts, the head publisher of the chantry), it is logical to assume that Bouchard would have had the means and resources to publish the book without the chantry knowing about it, until too many copies were in circulation.

This evidence, of course, is entirely circumstantial. It is entirely possible that Evanura is little more than a work of fiction, published by an author looking to stir controversy. The biggest flaw in the argument of those of us who believe that the story is at least somewhat factual, is that there is no evidence of the book until the middle of the black age, nearly two hundred years after Brandis's supposed death. Of course I will offer this rebuttal to that: There is no publication evidence of the famous _Le recueil complet de la flore de conifère_  by Brother Gerard Boulet until the middle of the Towers Age, and yet the scholar community at large accepts as fact that the book was published in 2:31 Glory (a little over 10 years after the fall of the dales, coincidentally).

The history of publication in Thedas is a very murky subject. To outright dismiss (or confirm) a books publication date anywhere before the Black Age is almost impossible. Chantry record keeping has been restructured no less than 14 times since the Glory Age. Any chantry librarian can tell you that something always gets lost when a restructure happens in the system. Why, only last year, when the Denerim Royal Library restructured its catalog system, it lost no less than 35 books. So far, the librarians have only recovered 15. Multiply that over the course of six hundred years, and losing record of a books publication doesn't just become a possibility: It becomes an inevitability.

 _La véritable histoire de la conquête des Dales_  changed my entire career as a scholar. I remember believing, before I read it, that Divines could do no wrong. I firmly believed that religion was the one true good in the world, the one true light. The chantry brought light to darkness, truth to uncertainty and hope to the hopeless. After I read Evanura, however, I understood the truth: The Chantry is run by men, and men are corruptible, no matter how "Divine" we claim them to be. My entire career in the last 30 years has been coloured by that realization: Men are fallible, therefore government, businesses, ideals, and yes, religions, are fallible as well. The Exalted March upon the Dales was wrong. It used the ideals of "justice" and "Defense of the common man" to justify cultural destruction, and relegating a proud people to little more than vagabonds and street rats. We should remember tha razing of Halamshiral as one of the black spots upon our institutions long history.

Truth, or Fiction, _La véritable histoire de la conquête des Dales_  helps us remember an important fact: We were wrong. It is a mantra we must always repeat whenever discussing a mistake that we, either as individuals or collectives, have committed.

In his final letter to Roderic, Brandis mentions that he hopes and believes that Orlais and The Chantry will eventually make restitution to the Elves it has wronged. He hoped that such restitution would happen in the next hundred years. We have sadly missed him dream by a few centuries. I can only echo his own hope, that we – as a culture and an institution – realize that we must make amends, for we are all the Maker's children – even those who don't believe in him.

As "Brandis" famously says in the epilogue of his work: May Andraste Light Your Way, and may Falon'Din be at your side.

 

Brother Ferdinand Genitivi

12th Cloudreach, 9:26 Dragon


	2. Introduction

Introduction

by Varric Tethras

 

The year was 2:45 Glory. King Fyruss's famous conquest had failed, the monarch betrayed by his Tevinter Allies. Caspard Pentaghast had started his famous conquest of Nevarra. By the same time the next year, he would become its king. Those within Orlais had begun to forget the Exalted march against the dales, which had ended only 25 years previous. The memory of humans is short. The truth of the war had been forgotten, and already tales were spreading of how the chantry had saved the Elves from eternal damnation. Some of the Elves that had agreed to be assimilated into human society had started to believe it too.

The famous split between the Tevinter and Orlesian Chantry had not occurred and the two nations had achieved a very tenuous peace, thanks in no small part to the growing faith. It would be another three hundred years before the kingdom of Ferelden would be brought together by Calenhad. It would take five hundred years before Kirkwall would become the free city it is today.

A small book shop on a small corner of a small street of the growing city of Val Royeaux advertised a newly printed book. That small street would eventually become part of the now historic market square. The shop owner advertised a “new fictional epic.” Soon, the title and the content of the book began to spread via word-of-mouth. A few months later, and the store owner found himself arrested by the Templars, and his store became chantry property. The sign and all copies of the book were burned.

At least that's what I like to think happened. The truth is that we have no records of the glory age – at least nothing so mundane as book stores and what they were selling. But the book was published, and it certainly did sell. It was a small book at first (The publishing industry was very small in the Glory Age). But it gained traction. We do have records from the Steel Age, and those records are quite clear: The Book was quite famous. It was considered pulp fiction, something only fit for the poor people to consume. And one thing was very clear from those records: The Chantry did not like the book _one bit._

The Book's title was _Evanura: La véritable histoire de la conquête des Dales_. The author claimed to be the famous General Brandis, who had achieved fame in the exalted march upon the Dales, only to disappear after the final battle – never to be seen again. I can only imagine the frenzy the Chantry was kicked into when the book was revealed to them. By its existence today, we know very well that any measures they took to destroy its existence was met with failure.

There is, of course, an amusing fact to note about books before the steel age: Reading fiction was almost exclusively the past-time of the nobility. This of course means that a book was released that demonized the Orlesian nobility, and the Chantry, and the nobility _ate it up_. I suppose even the Orlesians of the glory age loved drama more than they loved their pride.

One thing is certain however: The book has achieved fame and infamy throughout Thedas. Scholars clamour for copies of the “true” versions (almost all available editions are in common, not the original Orlesian), and there is a heated debate about whether the book is fiction or non-fiction.

I frankly don't really care whether the book portrays true events or not. I don't even care if it's written by the famous Brandis. As an author of like-minded pulp fiction, I only care about one thing: _it's a damn good book_. Like most beginning authors, _Evanura_ was on my 'must read' list for a while. When I finally read it, it defined a major part of my writing career. Much of my writing hasbeen trying to capture some of the magic I had witnessed in _Evanura_.

When I was offered the chance to work with Madame Coté, I took it. The translation has changed very little changed since the 17th edition (published at the beginning of the Storm Age), which made it unapproachable for younger readers. When Madame Coté approached me and told me she was doing a completely new translation, and wanted me to edit it to suit our “modern sensibilities,” I couldn't say no. I hope I've done an adequate job of helping her stay true to the source material, while updating it so it's more digestible for the readers of the Dragon Age.

One thing I have tried to address in this edition is the lack of emphasis many phrases had in the previous editions. In his work, Brandis swears like a sailor (or a soldier as the case may be), but many of his more colorful phrases lost their impact over the decades. Most people won't appreciate the vulgarity of a phrase like “Stow thy effing tongue, thou wine-drunk shaft-ape!” However, “Shut the fuck up, you piss-guzzling cock-monkey!” gets the message across rather nicely.

Also I hope you like Elves that talk about sex a lot. Because this book has elves that talk about sex a lot. Also Elves that _have_ sex a lot. For a work of 'historical fiction,' this book has a lot of talk about naughty bits and banging them together. I wish that was included in my 'History of Thedas' class when I was growing up. I might not have fell asleep during Sister Loretta's lecture about the Battle of Ayesleigh ( _And then they fucked!_ ).

This volume comes complete with notes by Scholar Genitivi and yours truly. These notes will help you make sense from the various references that no longer have any relevance to today. You have to remember that when this book was written, the kingdom of the dales was still a fresh memory for many people. Nowadays it is nothing more than ruins. The Dalish clans have moved quite a ways away from what their culture is depicted like here, but that's to be expected. After all, a people's culture is going to change if you force them into a nomadic lifestyle.

Additionally, there are many creatures alive during this age that we have no memory of. Griffons weren't the only creatures that have disappeared from the world since the Glory Age. There are mentions of giant bears that roamed the mountains, various species of lesser dragons, and even many mentions of a species of sea serpent that stalked the waters of the waking sea. Many other creatures are mentioned, some familiar, and some strange.

I hope you enjoy this book as much as I did when I first read it. I hope that our updated translation makes it more enjoyable for younger readers, and I hope it inspires many authors, just as it did me those many years ago.

 

Varric Tethras

9th Bloomingtide, 9:26 Dragon


	3. Preface

_Mes chers amis,_

 

I must tell you my story.

My story... I suppose you never really know where you begin a story, do you? Of course, it's always the same answer: at the beginning. Such a subjective idea. What is the beginning? Do I tell you how I was born? Where I grew up?

No, beginning is the easy part. _Finding_ the beginning is the hard part.

The beginning. Always the beginning, like some sort of... Andraste's breath, I can't even think of the word. Is this too spur of the moment? Maybe.

I'll be dead in three months. That's how long I have.

Maker, I just let that sink in for a moment. Three months and these hands will no longer hold this quill, or touch this paper. Will I even remember what paper feels like when I enter the fade?

I don't want to enter the fade. Don't deserve it. Do any of us really deserve it though? Maker, just send me wherever she went. Actually no, I don't deserve that either. Bury me in a hole in the ground. Forget about me.

Alright, this is rambling.

My name is Jonathan Edmond Sylvain Brandis. Edmond after my grandfather, Sylvain after my uncle. They called me the 'silver knight.' _La foutaise._ For twenty years I was a chevalier for His Majesty's royal army. Twenty years of my life that I wish I could take away. Give up. Redo.

If I could redo those years... if I could. I would drop that sword in the practice yard, I would run back to father and tell him that I had thought it over. I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. I didn't want to be a chevalier anymore. I wanted to be a farmer. A fucking farmer. No farmer ever destroyed an entire culture. No farmer ever played a major part in the social genocide of a nation.

The rest of them all told lies to themselves. Lies to cover the guilt, the shame, obviously sitting there in plain sight like a pale bronto at a dinner party. It was for the chantry, it was for the emperor, it was for the maker, it was for the good of the people. It was a fucking conquest. A fucking conquest based out of hatred, malice, and some young hotblooded whelp's idea of "justice." Fuck justice. Fuck the maker. Fuck the chantry. Fuck the emperor. Fuck the Divine. More importantly, fuck me for going along with it. For swallowing that horseshit hook, line and sinker. By the time I had noticed the hook, it was already buried deep in my throat.

There are those who tell you that we should be called heroes - Liberators. Bringers of justice, peace and order. We were none of those things. We were warlords in shiny armor, using words of light and peace to preach hatred and violence. We destroyed an entire culture, an entire nation in the name of our god. And yet he did nothing to punish us for such insolence. If the maker exists, he's a bastard. For that matter, I'm a bastard too.

I wonder sometimes, wonder if I still would have met her. What my life would have been like. Would the march still have happened? Of course it would have. Would my life be better as a simple farmer, without any knowledge of this? Without any knowledge of _her_? I'm not sure. Don't want to think about it, really. Sure, I say that after I thought about it. Fucking balls.

 _Her._ It all comes back to her, doesn't it? First, let me tell you: she was no saint either. But at least she fought for something. Not for liberty or justice, but for fucking survival. The elves committed atrocities just as we did. That's war: people die. But our violence was without purpose. We were the mighty heel of the empire, coming to crush. And then we had the audacity, the fucking nerve, to claim that the ants we were crushing began to bite our heels.

But her? She fought for something. I think she knew from the start - knew she couldn't win. But fuck if she didn't give it her all anyway.

 

_Votre ami dévoué,_

J.E.S. Brandis

 

P.S. I'm no great author, you know that, Roderic. But you promised - promised you would see this published. I don't care if it gets filed under "fiction." I don't care if you change my name. I don't even care if nobody buys it. But I swear to the Maker (fuck him) that if this sits on your desk for a year and a half, I will make sure to come back from the dead and stab you to death with that stupid fucking Andraste statue you love so much. I'll ram it right up your ass.


	4. Prologue: An Unquenchable Flame

She was bleeding. The blood covered my hands as I desperately tried to press the makeshift bandages onto the wound. Her muscles were tense, and my heart pounding as the fear pounded inside of my head: she was going to die, and it was going to be my fault.

She was young, couldn't have been more than thirteen. A Dalish girl with vibrant facial tattoos, and hair the color of autumn leaves. She tried to form words, bits of elvish I couldn't understand. _Abelas_ she had said to me, her eyes welling with tears. _Ir Abelas, ha'hren_. I could tell by her glassy eyes that she wasn't talking to me, but something she saw beyond.

I tried to move faster, realizing that I was quickly losing her. Her life was fading as quickly as her blood was leaking. My hands were old, they had long lost the strength they held in their younger days. I was a never good medic. These hands have always been better at taking life than preserving it.

Somehow I got the bleeding to stop. I had refused to allow another elf die by hand. It was a relief to know that I hadn't broken my promise. She was delirious for a few days afterward, while her body recovered. She kept mumbling broken elvish through her dreams. I couldn't understand any of it. She kept repeating _Idys salgara_.She kept repeating it over, and over, and over.

On the fourth day she finally slept soundly. I left the old cabin then. She had been through enough. Didn't need to see my grizzled old mug when she awoke. I watched from the woods as she returned to her clan, looking back upon the cabin with a mixture of relief and confusion as she left. And then I left.

I still have miles to go. Weeks of traveling. Hope these old bones can take it. In a week's time I should reach the deep woods near Serault. Then my journey begins in earnest. They say nobody has ever reached the Tirashan. We shall see.  


	5. Tunan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wolf, a young Emerald Warrior, and an unwelcome return.

The large cinnamon colored wolf bounded through the forest. His large, powerful paws dug up small clumps of dirt, bits of broken twigs and broken bits of leaves, throwing them up into the air behind. His tail worked as a rudder behind him as his body twisted and turned through the forest's paths, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, saliva flying from his maw.

He was large, at least a head taller than the largest war hound, and his fur was thicker, heavier and shinier than the most pampered Orlesian lapdog. His body was lithe and agile, muscular and powerful, his entire body rippled and wrought in the crucible of life. His body gracefully stretched into every bound and gallop, powerful muscles propelling him forward, as fast as any coarser. He had a large scar covering his face, which had caused him to lose the sight in his left eye, and a large white spot was centered on his snout, just above his large, wet black nose. His right ear was slightly smaller than the other, and had a small chunk missing, a reminder of his victory against a larger beast.

His eyes were bright, and gray like the wisps of summer clouds. They were focused ahead of him, staring relentlessly upon the path he tread. The dark green of the forest around him became a blur of all the shades of white, green, red and brown. He could smell the dirt beneath him, the wet leaves above him, and the grass, plants and weeds all around him. He could smell the drying water from the morning's dew as it baked in the sun. The smell of warm rocks, and the smell of fresh moss. He could taste the air in his mouth, and he was happy.

He let out a blissful bark as he picked up his pace, eager to meet his destination. He smelled the freshly hewn marble before he saw it. He could smell the drops of rain that had not yet evaporated, and the small bits of moss that had grown over the hard-to-clean places.

As he turned the corner, he saw it:

The forest parted, revealing an enormous verdant green valley. Cliffs rose high to the west, to the east was a magnificent azure lake. A great bridge crossed the lake and lead to an beautiful highway, wrought in ancient stone: The Imperial Highway. It was a remnant of an ancient Empire that once spanned the continent, and now was but a memory.

On the far side of the cliffs stood an enormous statue of a wolf, looking down upon the valley below in the the bright, beautiful glare of the morning sun. Grass flowed like waves, and in the center of the valley was a majestic city, built into the meadow itself. It was built from the marble and granite found in the surrounding hills, and it rose higher and higher into the morning sun.

Rising above the city was a great hill, which rose up into the cliff side. Upon the top of the hill was a majestic stone tower, shining and glittering in the light like a beacon. A great bronze statue stood atop it, of an elf with a sword within his hand, pointed towards the rising sun. _Varla'ethem or Shartan_ : The Tower of Shartan. It was a monument to one of their greatest heroes in history: A memory of what the Elves of the Dales had accomplished to come this far.

"Tunan!"

His ears perked as he heard a female voice call his name, and he stopped in his tracks. He let out a loud yelp, and then howled happily. The female laughed.

"Tunan! Come here you silly little Fen."

A female elf was coming up the path, the sun bathing her in its bright morning glow. A beautiful blade was upon her hip, its hand-wrought hilt wreathed with elegantly etched flowers. Its scabbard was as dark as midnight, with many names engraved upon its surface.

Her armor was a deep green, made of hardened leather, her shoulders and neck reinforced with chain. A hand-carved wooden shield was hitched upon a sling across her back. Painted upon the face of the shield was the impressive silhouette of a hart.

She had long, golden braided hair, which fell across her back, shoulders and chest. Her face was rough and weathered like fine leather. Pockmarks covered her face in small patches, with one large patch covering her left cheek. Two grisly scars covered her face, one across the length of her jaw, and the other ran across the bridge of her nose. She was beautiful.

She smelled of wet leaves, of the morning's dew upon rising grass, and of sweat, blood and a long day's toil. The fragrance of her clothes and armor was a bouquet of insect-infested dirt, blade oil, and hawk feathers; of freshly brewed ale, freshly smoked vegetables, cat dander and old, dried tea leaves.

To the Elves of the Dales, she was known as Lindiranae – a member of the noble order of the Emerald Knights. They were Elves dedicated to the protection and welfare of the Dalish kingom. Lindiranae was famous among them, her quick thinking, excellent leadership abilities and unparalleled swordsmanship earning her the right to carry the famous Elven sword: Evanura. To the wolf, however, she was far more: his life-long friend – someone with whom he shared an unbreakable and unconditional bond.

He bounded down the path towards her, his tongue happily hanging from his mouth, and she knelt down to receive him, a bright smile crossing her face. "Silly little Fen. Playing in the forest, are we?"

He yowled loudly in happy response, burying his head into her awaiting arms, nearly pushing her over. She laughed as he raised his head and she breathed into his mouth, just like an alpha would do. His tongue licked her jaw and mouth, before bounding over her, sending her to the ground in a fit of laughter.

He felt joy as he rolled over her, licking and swatting and burying his body and face into her own, her hands grabbing tufts of his fur as she wrestled on the ground with him.

"Gah! You're too big for your own good, _da'har'el_!"

He grumbled loudly and happily as he plopped his large body down upon hers, pinning her to the ground. She laughed loudly.

"Imp!"

He panted, happy and content as her arms enveloped him. His fur was matted and soft, now coated and mixed entirely with her sweat and heady scents. His head lowered and he buried it in the crook of her shoulder, her hand gently stroking the thick meadows of his fur. They sighed together, content in their surroundings, happy and taking pleasure in each other's company. They were not master and companion, they were friends who happened to have the good fortune to find each other despite their differences.

Tunan growled happily, closing his eyes, the hot breath from his cold, wet nose tickling Lindiranae's ears. She smiled, her own quiet laughs rumbling through his belly as her chest rose and fell in quiet bursts. They were kindred souls, and few would ever known the kind of bond that they shared. Theirs was a bond that caused the earth to turn, for the stars to shine, for the moon to give light and for the sun to rise. Without him, she was nothing, and without her he was but a mindless beast. Together they were a single being, bound eternally by an unconditional love. A woman and her wolf – far more than simple a master and her pet. No, they were far more than that: they were twin souls, separated by species, but little else. When she was sad, he would feel her pain. When he was joyful, her sadness would bloom into comfort. Precious little wasn't shared between them.

The wind changed, the breeze carrying scents of home. Scents of meat and roasted vegetables filled his nostrils, and his mind wandered to home, to the warm hearth, to the large fur rug lying by the fire, and to the large kettle, filled with delicious braised meat, swimming in piping hot delicious juices. He stood, uttering a happy and content rumble from deep within his throat, beckoning her to follow.

The path flowed down the valley, a river of gravel and dirt upon which many feet had trod. Centuries of life were buried with the grains beneath the wolf's feet as he walked. If he had the power, he could have witness countless stories, could have heard innumerable last breaths and countless more cries of laughter piercing the sky. The grass around the path had grown long, and they were in the middle of spring. The grass rose around them, like a small forest with its own undergrowth and small microcosm of insect life. Bugs of all kinds, aphids, ants, grasshoppers and dragonflies passed through the atmosphere of the tiny ecosystem, each blade of grass like a giant rising tree of the great forest.

The dirt crunched beneath his feet as he turned to look back towards her, waiting patiently as she rose from the grass and stretched, her loud groaning yawn causing his ears to perk up in amusement. The leather of her armed creaked and groaned as she began to move and he panted happily, yapping and yowling like an excited puppy. She rested a hand upon his head, scratching him behind his good ear, causing him to lean his head into her, stopping his excited sounds.

"That's enough, Tunan," she cooed as the two set their sets upon the city before them. "I'm sure Nalea will have dinner ready when we get home. I haven't had a good meal in days. Fruits and berries get tired after a while."

He barked loudly as he trotted next to her, looking up at her with eager and attentive eyes. It had been a while for him as well. Most wolves preferred wild game, the succulent flesh of the freshly killed beast, wetting their muzzles with warm, fresh blood. But Tunan was no wild wolf. He had been born to the Dalish, just as his mother before him. The Dalish had not taken to capturing wild wolves in over a century. Tunan, like most Dalish wolves preferred a hearty meal - of tender succulent pieces of braised meat served with freshly smoked vegetables, all washed down with a nice cool bowl of fresh water from the river.

"Yeah, me too," she replied. "Some nicely smoked lamb, served with smoked tomatoes and pickled peppers, all served on a bed of hot, steaming spiced rice. I can taste it now."

Tunan whined, his tongue hanging from his mouth as he stared up at her, his feet remembering exactly where to take him.

"Yes, of course, silly fen. You know I don't forget to have a nice, big overflowing mug of freshly poured ale." She said the final words with a spiritual reverence. Tunan could almost see the mug she must have pictured in her mind.

#

The streets of Halamshiral were busy this time of year, with many merchants hawking their wares from all the various corners of The Dales. Fresh fish from the banks of the sea, fresh vegetables from the fields of Dirthavaren, and raised livestock of all kinds from the farms surrounding Suledin.

The scents of smoked meats, roasted vegetables, and of heady spiced ales filled the air. The bleating of sheep and rams, and the snuffling of pigs seemed to bounce off the stone of the surrounding buildings, making the market square a complete spectale for the ears. In the center of the square was a large monument, a large square monolith upon which stood the statue of a resolute and victorious elf, a sword and bow grasped in each hand. Surrounding the statue was a beautiful and expertly tended garden, filled with lilacs, daylilies, petunias, beautiful dahlias and elegant roses. At either side of the statue stood a gorgeous and regal magnolia tree.

Growing around the entire statue, and forming a circle around the garden with its roots was an enormous and impressively molded tree, rising high above the market square, its leaves providing shelter for those who paid their respect to the monument. A plaque upon the statue read, in elegantly and passionate cursive etching: Here Lies Shartan - The Great Liberator. Raised from his humble rest and reinterred on this day, 7 Eluviesta, 1073 TE.

Someone had placed a wreath of flowers, loving woven with care, upon the head of the statue. Two young elven children, seated at the foot of the monument, were chatting energetically about the newest arrival to the city. One sat and was weaving a flower crown, the fifth of many if the pile of flowers and completed wreaths were any indication. The second sat behind her, and he was weaving and braiding her hair with expert fingers. When they saw Lindiranae and her wolf approach, they both gaped excitedly. The girl stopped her weaving, standing up, and pulling her hair out of the young boy's grasp. She ran towards the woman, her arms outstretched in the expectation of a happy embrace.

"Linny! Linny! Did you hear?!"

Lindiranae smiled widely, one hand resting upon the pommel of her sword as the other welcomed the oncoming hug. She laughed softly as the girl buried her face in the warm sweaty leather of her stomach.

"What little one?"

Tunan sniffed at the ground, causing the little boy to giggle as his cold, wet nose snuffled against his bare feet. At the laugh, Tunan looked up, his panting mouth held agape in the closest a wolf to come to a smile. He fell upon the boy, licking his face excitedly, causing the boy to squeal in excited delight.

"He's back! Raj has returned from the Frostbacks!"

The boy pushed the wolf off of him, trying to express his words through the excited wolf's attention.

"Yeah! Remember that Elder Vallan thought he wouldn't return?! But he's fine! He even returned with a couple of really big shems!"

"Yeah! Huge guys with big huge beards the size of of thorn bushes and blue tattoos all over their bodies!"

The children hadn't noticed that Lindiranae's face had gone pale, her lips shaking slightly as she tried to smile.

"Wow!" Her enthusiasm was as fake as a midnight sunrise. Tunan's ears folded back on his head as he looked up at her, sensing her maelstrom of emotions - fear, anger, longing, relief and joy. He whined softly, and he felt the emotions weaken for the moment. He walked over, his large frame brushing against her,and she instinctively removed her hand from her sword, resting within his thick, cinnamon-brown fur.

"That's so exciting! When did you hear that he returned!"

"Just this morning! They say he came in with the morning sunrise!"

Lindiranae's smile was more genuine this time as she hugged the young girl close to her. Tunan leaned his body hard against hers as he felt her hands start to shake, a cry welling up inside of her lungs. He licked her hand, nudging her palm with his nose. A long, loud sigh escaped her lips and she relaxed once more.

"Well, I must be off, little ones," she said in the cheeriest voice she could manage.

"Wait!" the little girl tore from her arms before she grabbed up one of her freshly made flower crowns. "I made this one for you." She offered the wreath up towards the woman, smiling hopefully.

Lindiranae chuckled, smiling widely as she knelt down on one knee. "How kind of you, da'lan," she replied, bending down and allowing the happy young child to place the wreath upon her head. "I shall treasure it always. Am I a queen, now?"

The little girl giggled. "No! You're an empress now! Empress of the Dales!"

"Well, I shall endeavor to be a good one then, da'lan."

The little girl smiled widely before returning to her task, the little boy wiping the wolf's saliva off of his face before winding his fingers through the girl's hair once more, a grimace crossing his face as he realized all of his previous work had been undone by the girl's excitement.

"Sala! You shook your braids out! Now I have to start all over!"

"Oh?" the girl replied as she returned to weaving the flowers together. "I'm sorry, but you'll keep braiding won't you? You promised."

A grumbled escaped the little boy's mouth before he sighed, once more beginning to braid the girl's hair with expert hands, causing a wide smile to climb across her face.

#

"Come on, fen," Lindiranae said, and the wolf's ears perked up slightly, his tail wagging as he began once more to trot at her side. She walked through the market streets, paying no attention to the various market stalls.

Tunan barked, trying to call her attention to a merchant hawking pickled fruits, peaches and berries and apples and pears. They were her favorite (and his too, when she allowed him a bite). She paid no attention, not even turning to see what he was barking at.

"No, fen. We're going home. I'm hungry."

Tunan whined, sitting down in the middle of the street, barking once more at the merchant, who had now taken notice of the gigantic wolf apparently trying to become his next customer. He cast a curious glance between the animal and the woman, unsure of what action to take.

"I said no! I want to go home!" Her voice was filled with anger, and an overwhelming emotions he didn't know how to explain, and he could tell that she was on the verge of crying. She hated it when people saw her cry, and his ears fell flat against his head as he got up and ran over to her, nudging her hand with his nose.

"Come on," she said, her voice welling with oncoming tears, her shaking fingers brushing lovingly against the edge of his bad ear. The remnant of the ear flicked against her touch and he huffed loudly. It tickled - he hated when she touched his bad ear. He shook his head vigorously, causing the sensation to go away as she absent-mindedly removed her hand.

She walked away from the market, moving towards the large row of wooden buildings, each with their own large hand-crafted sign. Some were inns, others apothecaries, and one was even a brothel - although the owners insisted people call it a bath house. Lindiranae usually stopped in a few of the shops on her way home, and almost always picked up a bag of candied ginger - her aunt's favorite. But this time she didn't even look at the signs. She was a ghost wandering through the city, completely unaware of any living creature in her path.

As she passed the bakery, the owner, a stout portly old elf with a missing ear, thick gray hair and a two missing fingers, shouted out after her. "Oi! Lindilin! I just made a batch!" She paid no attention to him, causing his large jovial smile to falter. "Lindilin?"

He stepped out from the bakery, a full parchment bag held in his hand. Tunan stopped nad sniffed at it, his nostrils being filled with the strong, spicy, sweet smell of candied gender. his tongue lolled from his mouth and he panted happily, his mouth salivating. Auntie Nalea always gave him a few pieces of the treat, and he found himself looking forward to her kindness as the scent filled his senses.

The baker looked down the street towards the armored elf, who still hadn't stopped to even acknowledge him. "Lindiranae? Da'lan?" She made no answer. He sighed, grimacing as he watched her go before looking down as the large wolf nudged the package with his wet, black nose.

"Oi, Tunan," he called kindly, his smile returning as the wolf looked up at him, panting joyfully. "Here you go." He shoved the bag into the waiting wolf's mouth, and Tunan grasped onto it firmly, certain in his newfound task. "You make sure your Auntie gets it, yeah?" The wolf looked up at the man with curious eyes, whining inquisitively.

"Nah, fluffy boy. This one's on the house."

Tunan barked happily through his closed maw, and trotted away, his tail wagging as he picked up speed in an effort to catch up with his friend, who had entered some kind of ennui she was finding inescapable. Tunan expected it had to do with the return of Raj, but he couldn't understand why. Lindiranae always liked him - she licked his face almost as much as Tunan did (and that's the way you truly show someone you love them, if a wolf has anything to say about it). So why was she so angry and sad? Did she not like him anymore? Was she licking somebody else's face now?

He bounded after her, even his muffled barks not catching her attention as she walked - soulessly - back towards her aunt's house.

#

Nalea's house was large, built of beautiful brown oak and freshly hewn marble, fashioned by the finest masons and carpenters the city of Halamshiral had to offer. For years, she had owned The Peach and Pear - one of the city's most cherished inns. A few years ago, she turned over ownership to her partner Dunain (whose real name was Dudley, but anybody who called him that got punched). Nalea now spent most of her time perfecting her tea recipes, or cooking delicious, slow cooked meals for her niece and fluffy nephew.

Lindiranae threw the door opened like she was entering a fighting ring, and it slammed against the wall, causing the older elf in the long flowing dress to jump in fright, spilling hot tea all over herself.

"Shit! The fuck, girl?! This is my house, not a bleedin' war zone! Now I got hot tea on me tits!" She looked down, her hand wiping away some of the excess liquid from her front, which was now completely wet - exposing her breasts underneath. Even from underneath the colored fabric, Tunan could see how red they had become from the boiling hot liquid. "Fuckin' hell, I look like I just gave a tit-job to a snowman."

Lindiranae didn't respond, causing Nalea to stop and look her over with concern. She looked into the empty copper tea cup and placed it down onto the table. "What's wrong, girl? The first thing out o' your mouth is usually to tell me that I'm swearing too fuckin' much. Quill got your tongue?"

Lindiranae sighed, shaking her head as she removed her shield, setting it down near the door, her hands absent-mindedly undoing the belt holding her sword to her hip as she sat down, the weapon clanking down to the floor as her body melted into the seat.

Nalea sighed, crossing her arms as she looked down at her niece with concern. "Well whatever it is, nothing a good hot helping of ram stew won't fix."

Tunan's ears perked up as he heard the words, having recognized the delicious, robust smell of the stew as soon as he had set paw inside of the abode. His tail wagged as he walked over to the older woman, nudging her hand with his nose, sitting down on his haunches to present the bag he held in his mouth.

"Oh, you little angel. Always bringing Auntie her sweets, you are. Good little sweet fen." She gave him a good, rough scratch behind his good ear, causing his left hind leg to shake happily. He released the bag happily into her outstretched palm. Her thin fingers dug into the bag, grabbing a piece of the crystalized ginger, popping it into her mouth with a satisfied smile. "Mmmm! Delicious as always." Before closing the bag, she removed another piece, tossing over to the waiting wolf, who gobbled it up in an instant, wagging his tail and licking his chops contentedly.

"Alright then," she said, looking over towards Lindiranae who still sat in a quiet stupor. "You sit right there. I'll pour you both a bowl of stew. Get you a nice thick piece of crusty bread to go with it."

The stew was bubbling away in the large cauldron. It was thick and hearty, made of nice thick, tender pieces of ram (braised to perfection, obviously), with generous pieces of carrots, onions, leeks, parsnips, wild mushrooms and thick bunches of spinach. It was simmering away in a thick broth made of red wine and beef stock, cooked and reduced until it was like liquid velvet.

Using a large wooden ladle, Nalea scooped two large portions of the enchanting liquid into two large claw bowls, placing them upon a wooden tray, complete with two large clay soup spoons. "Now you two eat up. You've probably survived on nothing but twigs and berries your whole time out there."

Lindiranae looked up as her aunt began to walk over to the table.

"Rajmael is back."

The tray fell to the floor, the two claw bowls shattering. Tunan yowled loudly in pain and angry annoyance as his head was covered in piping hot stew. He jumped from his spot, shaking his body off, flicking bits of meat, broth and vegetables all over the room.

Nalea's mouth was agape, her face frozen in a mixture of anger and surprise, her cheeks flushing a dark shade of red.

"Son of a cunt."


End file.
